Triple Score

“Apology accepted.” He pushed off the door frame, closing the door behind him. His agent could wait. He wasn’t about to turn down a beautiful blonde, especially one bearing baked goods. “Come on. I know the perfect spot to enjoy them undetected.”

She snapped the lid of the tin shut and followed him down the hall toward the reception area. He slowed, shortening his steps so she could keep up with him.

“Hold it right there.” The nurse manning the main desk abandoned her post and jumped in front of them, one hand outstretched like a traffic cop or a member of the Supremes. “Where do you two think you’re going?”

“Easy, Nurse Ratched.” Jace softened the jab with his never-fail-to-charm-their-pants-off smile—if you didn’t count Noelle—and snaked an arm around the ballerina’s waist. “We’re only going for a walk.”

Noelle not-so-subtly elbowed him in the ribs.

“It’s okay, Connie. Now that I’m off crutches, the doctors want me to work the kinks out of this thing.” She tapped the brace covering her knee. “I promise we won’t go far.”

“Stay on the grounds.” Connie let them pass.

“Thanks, doll,” Jace called over his shoulder as he steered Noelle to the exit. “Don’t wait up.”

“Nice try,” Connie hollered back. “But if you’re not back by curfew, I’m calling in the search dogs.”

“Great. I love dogs.” The automatic doors slid open, blasting Jace with a burst of Arizona air, still hot even with the sun low on the horizon.

“Where’s this so-called perfect spot?” Noelle asked after they’d walked a few feet.

“Don’t knock it until you see it.” He guided her onto a concrete path that ran alongside a man-made pond before disappearing down a hill into a strand of acacia. “And it’s just past those trees.”

At least it was two years ago.

“You weren’t very nice to Connie,” Noelle scolded.

“Connie’s okay.” His voice cracked on the last syllable. Damned if Noelle’s schoolmarm tone didn’t get him hotter than center field at Wrigley in July. He cleared his throat and started again. “We go way back. She’d be disappointed if I didn’t mess with her.”

“Old flame?” Noelle eyed him suspiciously.

“Not even close.” They rounded a corner at the bottom of the hill and he led her to a wooden bench on the other side of the trees. Just as he’d remembered it, down to the sun-faded, weather-worn slats still needing a fresh coat of paint. “She was here the last time I was in.”

He sat, patting the spot next to him. She followed suit, stretching her bad leg out in front of her. “The last time?”

He nodded, lifted his elbow, then let it fall. “This is my second stint with this thing. Tore it two years ago and got away without going under the knife. Not so lucky this time.”

Her eyes filled with a pity he didn’t deserve and sure as hell didn’t want, especially from her. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He scuffed the ground in front of him with the toe of his Vans. “Odds are it’ll be stronger than ever.”

“Good.”

He liked that she didn’t ask questions or spout any of the bullshit he’d heard every day since his injury: “It could be worse,” or “You’ll be back out there sooner than you know it.” And his favorite, “A million guys would kill to have the career you’ve had.”

Assholes. Like he didn’t know how lucky he’d been. Like he was a greedy bastard for wanting more.

“So how about those cookies?” He gestured toward the tin. She popped the lid and they each took a macaroon. He bit through the crisp shell and was instantly rewarded with a burst of moist, coconutty goodness.

“Damn, your mom can bake,” he mumbled through a mouthful of cookie.

“She’s Italian,” Noelle said, as if that explained everything. And, in a way, it did. His mom’s idea of preparing a meal had involved a takeout menu and a cell phone. At least he hadn’t missed her cooking when she’d ditched him and his dad for greener pastures.

He reached for another and they ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound their chewing, interrupted periodically by his moans of pleasure.

“Ballet did this, huh?” He nodded at her knee, extended in front of her.

She put the tin down on the bench between them. “We’re not going there again, are we?”

“I never went there in the first place.” He grabbed another cookie and stuffed it into his mouth. “I’m an athlete. But you—I watched you. You’re an athlete and an artist.”

“You...watched me?”

“You can find just about anything on YouTube these days.”

She winced. “Then I suppose you saw the video of my accident. It’s got over a million hits. Seems people enjoy watching the suffering of others. The Germans even have a word for it. Schadenfreude.”

“I don’t know about the Germans, but I don’t get my jollies by seeing folks in pain.” He tapped his brace. “I tore this in front of 40,000 people at Citizens Bank Park. Had to be escorted off the field.”

“Ouch.”

“You said it.”

“And I thought twenty-five hundred witnesses at Lincoln Center was bad. That calls for another cookie.”

She held up a macaroon, but instead of taking it from her he leaned forward and bit into it, his lips brushing her fingertips. The contact sent a buzz of lust through him, and he jerked back.

“No good?” she asked, her voice husky. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips and his cock swelled.

“To the contrary.” His voice matched hers. “A little too good.”

“The cookie? Or...?” Her hand still hung midair, clutching the remains of the macaroon.

“Or.” He took hold of her wrist and brought her hand to his mouth. “If you don’t want me to eat that damn cookie right out of your pretty little fingers then suck them into my mouth one by one, licking off every last crumb, stop me now.”

Her eyes darkened to the navy blue of the Yankees logo. “And if I do?”

He nipped her fingertips. “Then sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.”

* * *

RELAX? HE WANTED her to relax? Who was he kidding?

If pressing against him as he’d helped her up in the gym had been trapeze-without-a-net stupid, then this was Russian-roulette reckless. But Holly’s words echoed in her head.

Let loose. Live a little. Who says he has to be Mr. Right? What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now?

Her lips parted and she had trouble focusing her gaze. Her palms itched with the need to grab his asinine I’m the Guy Your Mother Warned You About T-shirt and pull him to her, forcing his actions to speak louder than his deliciously dirty words. The world had narrowed to three things: his mouth, her fingers and the half a cookie between them.